A Picture's Worth
by Rosethorn
Summary: Harry Dresden muses on his favorite photographs. HarryMurphy friendly. Very. Oneshot.


A/N: A creative-writing exercise assigned in class: choose a character and describe his/her favorite characters. I chose Harry Dresden.

Beware: ahead lies Harry/Murphy shippiness in spades.

A Picture's Worth

My desk hasn't changed much in the last ten years. I mean, it's the same desk. Same assorted office and magic supplies. The only permanent difference is a pair of those little, double-sided picture cases, closed and flat on their sides. And of course right now there's an envelope in the middle of the blotter, but that's not going to be there long.

I know what's in that envelope, see. It contains a blurry series of photographs; me, with a Sharpie-drawn lightning bolt on my forehead, throwing Murph over my shoulder and then tossing her at a big fluffy couch while Thomas cackles in the background. Revenge for the lightning bolt and prelude to a pillow fight. I am going to _burn_ those pictures unless Murph gets hold of them first.

The picture cases hold four photos between them and I can describe them all, down to the last hair, without even opening the cases. That's not why they're closed—they're _closed_ because I don't trust my clients as far as I can throw them. They're _there_ because it's comforting, somehow. A reminder that all this is real.

The first one is of Murph, just Murph, standing facing half away from the camera and scowling as the wind blows her hair into her face. I have no idea what's going on in the picture, or even when it was taken. She's wearing her uniform, so it's prior to her promotion to Lieutenant, but her hair is cut short, so it's after she was promoted from beat cop. I dunno. It's just...it's so _Murph_. It's stuck in that frame because it catches her so completely.

The next one is a blurry shot from our wedding, or actually the reception. Rosa isn't the greatest of photographers, especially not wedged up against a wall trying to keep out of everyone's way, but hiring a professional, with all the wizards and supernatural beings present, would just have been asking for trouble. Anyway, you can still make us out, Murph with her head thrown back in laughter and me, unable to resist, kissing her on the nose. It's my favorite picture of the two of us, because she looks so relaxed and happy and utterly breathtaking, and there's me, all elbows and knees in a badly-fitted tux. Quite a pair. But I get to put my arms around her, and that's all I wanted just then. Or now, really.

I'm still not sure who took the third picture—I think it might have been Thomas. It's the four of us sacked out; me, Murph, Maggie and Julia, though you can't really see the bulge that was Julia at that point since Murph is lying on her side. I do know _when_ it was taken; just after our lives got a whole lot less interesting, much to our mutual relief. I'm sitting up, legs sprawled out on the floor of the living room, head conked back against the couch. Murph is as previously mentioned lying on her side with her head in my lap, my hand on her hip, with her arm draped over Maggie. And Maggie is in front of Murph, her eyes closed, one thumb firmly in her mouth and her other hand clinging tight to mine. Later that night I got up and put both my girls to bed, and the picture was just sitting on the kitchen counter, with a note saying, "Couldn't resist the cuteness." Hence, the reason I suspect Thomas. But the picture remains.

Of course, no picture collection of mine is complete without the wee ones. The last picture is a studio portrait of Maggie and Julia that Murph had taken for my birthday. They're young, and they look it, Julia all round baby-fat and Maggie beginning to grow into the gawky, stocky figure that was the bane of her teenage years. They look like angels in the portrait, which they're definitely not, and Maggie is wearing a dress, an occurance I don't think has been repeated since. Despite her dark hair and disrespect for authority, she is definitely Murphy's daughter. Must be the reason they fight so much. And Julia, despite her halo of blond curls and sweet, stubborn face, is my girl. Much more subtle than I've ever been, of course, and much less adverse to wearing pink and being nice to Morgans. But still my daughter.

Anyway, those are my favorites.


End file.
